


Better Off Dead

by trashm0uth



Series: Not Okay [2]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bad Parents Maggie Tozier & Wentworth Tozier, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Drug Use, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Gay Panic, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Prostitution, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Prostitution, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23809546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashm0uth/pseuds/trashm0uth
Summary: Richie Tozier is having a lot of issues. He is coping with ongoing rape trauma, repeated suicide attempts, abuse, and heavy drug use. And on top of it all, he has to avoid accidentally revealing his feelings to Eddie Kaspbrak. Will Richie find the light at the end of the tunnel, or will he remain in his own personal pit of despair until he ends his own suffering?
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Not Okay [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1715449
Comments: 20
Kudos: 91





	1. Down

**Author's Note:**

> Hi this is a sequel to my “Not Okay” story on here. I will post weekly

It had been one year since Richie’s second suicide attempt, and since Patrick Hockstetter skipped town. Richie had completely gone down hill, ever since he was admitted and released from numerous hospitals. School sucked for him, because of course, the kids in Derry were blissfully unaware of how to treat a suicide survivor. Richie didn’t go to the police about his rapes because Patrick had conveniently disappeared from Derry. Richie knew Patrick was skipping town to avoid being prosecuted. Richie got on some pretty heavy drugs, which he somehow kept a secret from the losers. He still hung out with them, cracked his usual jokes, but there was something missing. 

An emptiness in his eyes. 

… 

It was a Friday afternoon when Richie, now 14 years old, was walking home from school with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He wore his usual Hawaiian over shirt and a white tee, but there were dried bloodstains from the year prior he didn’t like to think about. He looked older, despite aging a mere year. 

His eyes looked dead and faded, like the kind of life you would see from a war veteran. His hair was longer, too. His cheekbones were sharp, and there was almost no meat on his brittle bones, due to malnutrition. He had dark bags under his eyes, as he hadn’t slept in two days straight, not to mention not having had a proper meal in at least a month.

Richie was autonomously walking down his usual path, when he stumbled right into a familiar gang. 

“Hah, there he is, the notorious sir-wanna-die!” Bowers shouted. Belch and Vic followed, albeit hesitantly, close behind. Richie took his cigarette out of his mouth before turning to face them.  
“What is it, Bowers? Were you coming to tell me I was a pussy? Or that I was a fag? Because if so, save it,” Richie coldly spat out. Bowers looked momentarily shaken before regaining his composure.  
“Nah, we were coming to tell ya that Hockstetter is coming back,” Belch spoke less harshly than Bowers. Richie was in the middle of taking a drag of his cig before he choked.  
“What?” Richie hissed. Bowers stepped closer.  
“Yeah, that’s right. So you better watch your queer ass or Patrick might come back and take what he wants,” Bowers chuckles, his face inches from Richie’s. Richie takes a minute to let that settle in before delivering a swift right hook to Henry’s jaw, catching him by surprise. 

Of course this resulted in a full fledged fight. Henry ordered his goons to hold Richie down while he beat the shit out of him. Although, Richie got his fair share of damage done to Bowers, as his adrenaline was fully active.

“You little shit!” Henry yelled. He stepped back before delivering a hard kick to Richie’s abdomen, then ordering his goons to let him go. 

… 

Richie laid on the ground for a few minutes before getting up to leave for his house. He heard stirring behind him, but he assumed it was just something to ignore. Right when he was about to round the corner to his house, he heard an all to familiar voice:

“Where are you going, flamer?” Patrick Hockstetter snarled.


	2. Mama Was a Bit Naive, and Daddy Was a Blinded Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick comes back and Richie gets in a fight with his dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to give backstory on Vic and Belch from the first story and how they feel, because I don’t think that they are complete jerks. Also TW for child abuse
> 
> (Title from “Another Empty Bottle” by Katy McAllister)

Richie thought he was going to pass out. Patrick leered at him with the all-too-familiar animalistic, predatory expression. One that hungered for a taste of Richie’s once-innocent flesh. 

Richie was about to speak, when he was violently shoved forward by Patrick. He tried to kick at him, but Patrick seemed to be an artful dodger. He swerved away from every kick, eventually pinning Richie’s legs and arms down. 

Patrick seemed as if he was about to go in for a kiss, one that would inevitably send Richie into shock. But Patrick’s predatory, maniacal expression was soon replaced with a dazed one, as the lid of a trash can collided with his cranium. 

Richie expected to see one of the losers holding the lid, but he was met with the sight of a frazzled Victor Criss gripping the lid, and Belch standing behind with a satisfied expression on his face. To say Richie was confused would be a massive understatement.

“What the hell?” Richie asked, still in shock. Vic simply shook off his frazzled expression and replaced it with a calm and collected one. Belch seemed unfazed by the whole ordeal, as he just quietly lifted Patrick’s body off of Richie and moved it under one of the nearby trees. It was still visible, but you would have to look to find Patrick. So, in hindsight, it wasn’t the worst place to put an unconscious person.

“I—we—didn’t think that what Patrick did was right. Not the first time. Not any time after,” Vic began explaining. “But we couldn’t speak up about it, or Henry said he’d kill us. And we knew he meant it. And, honestly, nobody wants to die at the hands of Henry Bowers. But as soon as we heard Patrick was comin’ back into town, we knew the first thing he was gonna do was look high and low for you. And neither Belch or I could live with the guilt of you being Patrick’s victim again. So, we’re sorry Richie. We really are,” Victor apologized, genuinely at that.

“Thanks,” Richie stated, astonished at the two boys’… eh… kindness? Richie really didn’t know how to take anything that wasn’t hostility or brutality from the Bowers’ gang. He was sure that Vic and Belch were as messed up as Henry, but now, he couldn’t tell. Hell, this was the first time any of the Bowers’ members had addressed him by his name. At least kindly. But, Richie did remember that Vic tried to stop Patrick the first time he was raped, which only caused Vic and Belch to get hurt. So, there was that, too.

… 

Richie made his way back to his house, where he could hear shouting from inside. Muffled sounds of anger and regret to soon be felt echoed inside the walls. Richie wanted to leave, to run away from his regretful abode, but he couldn’t. He knew he would just end up running back again. Where else could he go, anyway?

Richie made his way up the steps to his house, dread creeping drearily up his spine. He opened the door to a messy scene: his mother passed out on the floor, and his dad rummaging through the fridge, presumably for a beer. 

Richie wanted to turn around and leave. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. The small, underweight teen moved hastily towards the stairs, but a floorboard creaked on his way, alerting his father of his presence.

“Hey, you! Where were you?” Wentworth slurred. Richie turned around, face paling as he looked at his parent. 

“I was just walking home, dad,” Richie said. Wentworth angrily lurched forward, causing Richie to jump. 

“Fucking liar. I bet you were out being a fag somewhere, weren’t you?” Wentworth shoved Richie lightly. Richie shook his head, but didn’t reply. This seemed to anger his father more. “Answer me!” He yelled, shoving his son to the ground.

“You know what, dad? Maybe I was! Maybe I was fucking some man whore on a street corner, because I’m just so gay that I can’t control my raging, disgusting, turned-on-by-guys-with-their-shirts-off boners!” Richie’s blood boiled as years of pent up emotions spilled out onto his tongue. Wentworth looked as if he was going to implode. Wentworth was silent for a moment before grabbing the nearest glass object (which surprise surprise! Was a beer bottle) and smashing it over Richie’s head. 

“Get out of my house,” Wentworth ordered. Richie just nodded submissively and crawled out the door, into the cold air.


	3. White Lips, Pale Face; Breathin’ In The Snowflakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie does what he can for money, and the losers find out about a little of his home life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Title from ‘The A Team’ by Ed Sheeran —which I will be using a lot in this story because it fits well.)
> 
> Hey guys I would love to hear feedback on this if u guys want to give any :]  
> TW for prostitution, implied self harm, implied child abuse, implied drug use, and homophobic slurs

Richie sat on the corner of a street he didn’t care to look up the name of. It had been exactly two months since his father had kicked him out. No (new) clothes, no food, no money. He still went to school, occasionally mooching showers and food off of his friends, although he hated doing so. Richie hadn’t seen Patrick in a while, which worried him. 

With nothing except his own body and his current outfit, Richie was desperate for money. He knew if he didn’t get some cash, he would die of starvation. He had been stealing from local grocery stores, but he knew he was going to get caught sooner or later. 

Richie was so desperate. He stood on the corner every night for the past month, maybe a month and a half, waiting for some creep to pick him up. He would simply obey anything they told him to do, because he knew that better work means better pay. So he would pimp himself out for any money he could get. Richie found it almost amusing how he had tried so desperately to avoid unnecessary sexual touching, or any touching at all, and now that was what he did to stay alive. And maybe get high with the local druggie, if he got paid enough.

Stan had noticed how distant Richie became within the first two weeks of him being kicked out (which nobody knew about.) He was always spacing out, and he would jump if someone touched him. His face was sunken in, and he occasionally had handprints on his neck and thighs (which were visible during gym class, since the coach did not allow pants.) Stan had tried to ask Richie about his health, but Richie assured him that he was fine. But the more the days dragged on, the more Stan worried. 

Richie never changed out of a long sleeved shirt, and when he had to during gym class, he always had bandages wrapped around his forearms. Naturally, Stan decided to tell the losers about his concerns. 

“Guys, I’m really worried about Richie,” Stan spoke anxiously. Everyone looked toward him. Richie was absent from yet another one of their hang-out sessions, and Stan took this opportunity to tell the losers.

“I think we all are, but go on,” Eddie raised his eyebrows, promoting Stan to continue. 

“Well, have you guys noticed how skittish he’s been? And the-the bruises on his neck and legs? And how he will never change out of that stupid fucking grey sweatshirt, except for gym class, and when he does, he always has a gauze bandage on both of his arms? I’m worried, guys. I really think Patrick might be back for him, or-or something,” Stan sputters. The losers look like they understand what he means, but don’t want to accept it.

“We should go talk to him. We can just bike to his house since we’re already together,” Ben suggested. Everyone wordlessly nodded. 

… 

“Guys, who’s knocking on the door?” Mike asked. Everyone looked at each other with a blank expression before Bill volunteered. Bill walked up the creaky steps that led to the Toziers’ front door. He tried ringing the bell, but it didn’t make a sound, so Bill knocked instead. The door creaked open with the second knock.

“W-W-What the h-hell?” Bill furrowed his brows at the carelessly open door. He looked back expectantly at his friends, as if looking for confirmation that he could enter the house. Eddie came skittering up the steps as Bill entered the house cautiously. 

“Hello? R-Richie? Mrs. Tozier? M-Mr. Tozier?” Bill nervously called out into the seemingly lifeless house. Then he heard rapid footfalls from upstairs. Then down the stairs. Then, all too quickly, he was met with the figure of a totally piss-faced Maggie Tozier.

“Is R-Richie home?” Bill nervously asked. Maggie stumbled towards him, drunkenly avoiding shards of broken glass that lie on the floor. 

“Wentworth kicked him out. He couldn’t stand the little brat’s overwhelming urge to be a little shit all the time. Specifically a gay piece of shit. Went hates fags,” Maggie slurred, stumbling back from the door and over to the couch. Bill stood in shock for a second, too shaken to do anything. But he snapped out of it pretty quickly as he found himself mechanically walking out of the Toziers’ residence and shutting the door. 

“Richie got kicked out,” Bill was pale with dread, and so was every other one of the losers. Except Mike, of course. 

“Guys, where is he then?” Eddie broke the silence with a quiet question of concern. Everyone looked at each other in hopes of an answer. Bev suddenly got a bright look on her face.

“I saw him at Freeser’s the other day,” she began. “So, uh, maybe he’s somewhere near there?” Everyone nodded, a ray of hope shining above the group as they grabbed their bikes with haste.


	4. The Losers’ Book of Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at the losers’ emotions through some free form and haikus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I was too lazy to write chapter so here this is. Hopefully this provides some insight as to how the losers feel in general. Comment if you have questions (my poetry is garbage)

BEV

… 

Lovely

Lovely girl

Living in an ugly world

Running through the empty streets 

Running through the days and weeks

Lovely girl

Living in an upset world

Playing music in her room

To drown out her own empty tunes

Lovely girl

Living in an ugly world

BEN

… 

Pit

Trying to feed the

Bottomless pit that resides

Inside your stomach

Never ending lust 

A hunger, a need, a wish

To not be alone

MIKE

… 

Strength

It’s hard to be the strong one

When tough times come

You pick everyone up

And carry them to safety

But you can’t pick yourself up

You can’t do it alone

So what do you do?

You suffer in silence

Because you have the strength

And they don’t 

BILL

… 

Close

So close 

But so far

It’s like you’re turning and falling away from what you want

But you can’t do anything about it

Because while you roll away

They dance closer

Ever growing nearer

But drifting further 

So close

But so far

STANLEY 

… 

Star

It’s a simple shape

Yet it rules you

You can’t love who you love

You can’t eat what you want to eat

You can’t say what you want to say

You can’t believe what you want to believe 

You can’t become who you are

EDDIE

… 

Once

One touch

One kiss

One love

One smile

One boy 

RICHIE

… 

nothing 

waking up should be more or less eventful

it should spark something like happiness or drowsiness

but it doesn’t

it does nothing

laughing should be fun

not fake

not filled with empty emotions

but it’s not

it’s nothing

pain should be more reactive 

not normalized

not the closest to pleasant you might ever feel

but it isn’t

it’s nothing 

living should be joyous

not filled with endless gauze bandages

hospital bills

endless lies

empty laughs

but it is

it’s nothing 

and nothing is all you’ll ever feel

nothing is all you’ll ever know 

nothing is all you’ll ever be.


	5. To Scar Her Skin With Cuts and Burns and Still Want to Hurt More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie tried to hide from the losers inside of the Freeser’s store

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from “Dark Enough” by Amanda Lopiccolo
> 
> I have no inspiration lol I’m sorry
> 
> TW for self harm, mentions of abuse

Richie sat on the corner next to Freeser’s, running his fingers over his freshly cut forearms and thighs. He had managed to shoplift some razors, and he had used them during the passing period at school, though he had to be careful of the bruises that littered his legs. But he eventually ran out of space to avoid them. He hadn’t had any time to wrap his arms or thighs yet, and he forgot his only hoodie in his locker, and his only pair of pants were at some random guy’s house, probably soaked in some unwanted fluid. So he just had to keep his arms and thighs hidden if anyone saw him. 

Richie had cut so much he couldn’t recount which scars were old and which ones were recent. They all felt the same. They all looked like a valley of overlapping grass blades, recently mown, the pattern mostly straight horizontal lines, but there was an occasional stray blade here and there.

Every time a car drove by the street corner, Richie ducked his head down, trying not to wonder what it would be like to jump out in front of one. Richie sometimes thought about laying on the train tracks, but he never did, simply because he would forget to write a suicide letter.

Richie wasn’t expecting any visitors at the corner on Freeser’s, so he didn’t bother to cover his arms or legs. He simply let them be chilled in the cool air. 

Some faint music was echoing from inside of the convenience store behind him. Something that sounded sad and bitter. Something that Richie vaguely remembered hearing once before.

Then he heard voices. One was distantly, albeit loudly, exclaiming something about getting aids from a hangnail. Richie smiled to himself, remembering Eddie and how he acted. Then it registered with him that the losers were here. 

Richie scrambled for the Freeser’s entrance, hoping to get there before the losers spotted him. He heard some confused shouting as he tumbled in the entrance. The voices were most likely the losers. 

Richie was only worried because his self harm scars were very much visible. He had no other clean clothes, and no washer of any kind. So he looked hurriedly through the gauze and bandages as he heard someone screaming his name. It sounded like Bev. 

… 

Richie managed to open a gauze pack and wrap his arms and thighs. He knew it looked suspicious as hell, but he didn’t have time to think about it before he was face to face with the losers. 

“R-Richie?” Bill stuttered. Richie swallowed anxiously. 

“That’s me, good sir,” Richie nervously quipped. Bev stepped forward, examining his arms and thighs with a suspicious look on her face. 

“What’s with the gauze?” She asked. Richie hadn’t had time to plan out his answer. 

“Why, I just had a little tumble! Nothing serious!” Richie smiled, although it quivered. Nobody looked quite convinced. Stan then stepped forward.

“Richie, we all know you use comedy to deflect emotions. So stop. What’s going on with you?” Stan spoke firmly, although not harshly. Richie blinked, unsure of how to react. Stan then moved closer, putting his hand on Richie’s shoulder near his neck. Richie’s body immediately reacted to the sudden touch, especially near such a sensitive area.

(Hands.)

(Choking.)

(Bruises.)

(Nails digging into his neck.)

(Fingers clawing at him.)

(Tearing him apart from inside.)

(That’s all Richie could think of.)

(Despite it only being the gentle touch of Stan.)

Richie stumbled backwards from the shock of the contact. All the racing thoughts and panic flowing through his head at the speed of light. He fell back into the shelf of bandages, causing panic amongst the losers. 

“Richie! Ohmygodyoucouldhavetetanusifyoufellonarustynailohmygod—” Eddie sputtered as he scrambled towards Richie. Richie was confused as he was crowded by the losers. He didn’t know why a simple touch on the neck caused him to fall, but he hated that he was drawing so much attention to himself. He looked up at his friends’ fearful faces. He felt sad that he was putting them through all of his shit. 

They didn’t deserve that. 

They never did.


	6. help, I have lost myself again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie says some harsh words. Unintentionally, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Title from “breathe me” by sia)
> 
> Hey I forgot what week it is so I’m sorry if I’m early or late or whatever. Lol. Also this is completely not how I think of abuse victims. This s just a look inside Richie’s mind, and Eddie’s mind. I’ve sorta been in a similar position so I’m venting a bit. Comment if you have questions.
> 
> (Ps I’m so sorry it’s short but it’s kinda important)

“Guys,” Richie announced over the chatter. “I’m fine. I just—” he swallowed heavily. “I’m fine.” The losers looked at him with wide eyes. Eddie stepped forward.

“Do you really think I’m gonna fucking believe that? After all of this- this bullshit that you’ve been through, and put us through? You suddenly have gauze wrapped around your arms and legs, which is suspicious as hell considering the fact that you’ve attempted suicide TWICE, RICHIE. I don’t know if you’re cutting, or- or burning, or what, but whatever it is is making me worried! I’m worried about you Richie! And you won’t fucking talk to me! Or anyone else! For fuck’s sake! At this point I feel like you’re just trying to make us worry about you! Are you? Because I wouldn’t be surprised! We don’t deserve that, Richie! I hate to admit it, but the shit that you’ve gone through, we’ve gone through too! And I’m sick of it!” 

Eddie finished, immediately looking guilty. He had realized the gravity of the situation. The words he had just uttered, 

“Richie,” Eddie started much quieter. “I-I didn’t mean that, I just—” Eddie cut off. The losers were tense, awaiting Richie’s reply. 

Eddie started at Richie. The raven haired boy’s eyes glazed over, spilling tears slightly. His cheeks and nose dusted themselves pink, flushing with emotion. Richie gave one final look over the losers, scanning their faces with precision, then his eyebrows tensed, he cupped a hand over his mouth and ran past the losers, avoiding eye contact. 

… 

Richie ran. He didn’t know where he was going. He just bolted as far as he could. He didn’t stop running until he collapsed involuntarily, heaving and gagging from running. 

Richie threw up, although it was mostly bile. He curled up on the grass, defeated. He was unaware of where he was, which was bizarre; he couldn’t have run that far with his malnourished frame. 

More than anything, he felt hurt. Not because he thought the losers, or Eddie, rather, betrayed him. Not because he felt that his friend hated him. But because they were right. They were absolutely right. He had put them through so much shit. And he never even thanked them. He was such a burden. Sure, they may not have all been raped and beaten and abused, but they had been through everything with him. And by all means, Richie didn’t deserve that from them. 

Richie didn’t deserve the losers.


	7. Inside It’s Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie meets an old lady, and contemplates life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Song title from “Empty” by jaidenanimations and boyinaband.)
> 
> Hiiiiiii I had a bit of inspiration so here you go!

Richie had picked himself up off the ground and got up, preparing to walk as far away as possible from the store. He walked. And he walked. And he walked. He walked until he saw a park, one that he was vaguely familiar with.

Richie gazed upon the distant field, looking and studying each and every detail of the scenery. He looked at the trees, and how their greenish leaves glistened in the sun. He studied the small pond, and how the gentle waves crashed against each other.

Mostly, he observed the people. How they talked and laughed. How they peacefully sat in the sun. How the people came and went. How they ran. How they walked. How they acted. They were so much happier than Richie had ever been. 

A part of Richie felt jealous of them. Another part felt glad that they could experience happiness. He mostly felt empty. His mind was being eaten away by a void, becoming emotionless and numbing. It was almost like static eating away at a TV screen, or a caterpillar devouring a leaf until all that’s left are the roots. He felt strangely peaceful. Noiseless. Quiet.

...

Richie wandered into the park, blindly navigating through obstacles. He knew people probably wouldn’t care about him looking like a wreck, seeing as he was nearly invisible to everyone. But he did get stopped by a kind older lady along the way.

“Hello young man, I was just going to tell you that you look just like my son. You’ve got his eyes and his hair! I couldn’t let you leave without telling you. I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you!” The lady excitedly clapped her hands together when she talked, although she dropped her cane while doing so. There was light in her greyish eyes, shining onto Richie. 

He smiled, assuring the woman that she didn’t inconvenience him. The lady was about to start talking again when someone tapped her shoulder and told her it was time to leave. 

“I’m sorry if she was an issue. I can’t control my own mother anymore,” a tall man with curly black hair laughed. Richie smiled, saying she was alright. The man and the older lady left, leaving Richie alone again. 

Richie sat down at a nearby bench, contemplating what had just happened. Richie began to wish he could have talked more with that elderly lady, as she seemed so maternal and kind. But he couldn’t. So Richie sat at the park bench and gazed at the clouds and the gentle waves of water in the pond, wishing he could just drown there.


	8. You’re Changing, I Can’t Stand It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The losers get in a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Title from “Changes” by xxxtentacion.)
> 
> Basically that punch scene between Richie and Bill in IT but reimagined with Eddie and Bill.

“Nice fucking going E-E-Eddie!” Bill shouted, shoving Eddie a little. Eddie looked hurt for a second, but quickly resumed his angry stance. 

“What? I said sorry! You’re not any better, you didn’t fucking do anything!” Eddie stood shorter than Bill, but somehow towered over him. 

Bill clenched his jaw as if he was swallowing down words. 

Stan was nervously wringing his hands.

Eddie looked like he was gonna explode.

Bev looked like she was uncomfortable.

Mike had a blank look on his face. 

Ben looked like he was about to say something. 

“Guys can we just calm down—” Ben was cut off.

“At least I didn’t c-compare h-having an overbearing mother t-to b-b-being raped!” Bill shouted. Eddie’s eyes glinted with fury as he prepared to say something. Tension was at an all-time high now. 

“Yeah? Well I didn’t! And you’re supposed to be his friend! Aren’t you? How come you never fucking asked him if he was okay? You never asked him jack-shit! Because you’re a shitty friend! That’s what you are!” Eddie screamed. 

Bill drew his fist back, and in a matter of seconds, Mike was there to put his hands in front of Eddie’s face, where Bill was aiming. Everyone was shouting nonsense now. 

Mike was pulling Bill away from Eddie, calm but stern, as Eddie and Bill exchanged some unforgiving thoughts and words. 

Ben was crying, under immense stress. Bev was hugging him and comforting him best she could. 

Stan was anxiously fiddling with a package of earbuds on one of the shelves. 

And that’s when it hit everyone: the losers were falling apart without Richie. They needed him. They weren’t the lucky seven without him. They were just the ordinary six.


	9. The Static Speaks My Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie’s inner monologue at the park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Title from the videogame ‘The Static Speaks My Name’. Play it at your own discretion.)
> 
> Hey guys this is another examination of Richie’s toxic mindset. Ok so just FYI, ‘Survival Sex’ IS IN FACT illegal. It falls under child exploitation/child sex trafficking. It is a worldwide issue which sometimes stems from sexual abuse as a child, homelessness, and/or many other issues. Visit this link to learn more about how you can help the issue: https://www.thorn.org/

Richie sat on the same park bench until it was sunset. He contemplated what he wanted to even do, debating on whether he should kill himself or not. He eventually decided he would wait until dawn. That way he could actually see what he’s doing. 

Richie felt empty. Like he was yelling at a mirror that wasn’t reflecting anything. His own words were nothing but thoughtless waves of grey, flying through his brain and echoing. They made a noiseless racket. They clogged up his senses and blocked out sound.

Richie began to wonder if he was going insane. He sure as hell felt like it. His mind was never quiet, the static noise growing louder every second. It felt like it was calling his name, begging him to end the suffering in his own living corpse. 

Maybe he deserved to be raped by Patrick and the countless other men who’ve humored his occupation. Maybe rape isn’t the proper word for it. He is asking money for sex, so maybe he could just call it undesirable work? Richie doesn’t know. He just knows that he probably deserves whatever he gets.

Richie began to wonder if child sex working was illegal. He thought it probably was. But was it really illegal if he was doing it to survive? He didn’t know. Of course he didn’t. He was just a fourteen year old with little knowledge of the judicial system. Not that it mattered, anyway. He would keep trading sex for money and food for as long as he needed to survive. 

In a way, it was almost familiar to him. The way he felt when he was doing his work. The familiar feeling of helplessness and forced submission. He felt like he did when he was first abused by Patrick. It wasn’t a good feeling, but he had no other choice. 

Richie wondered how long it was going to take the losers to figure out he was a prostitute. Maybe they never would. Sometimes he wanted someone to realize what was happening. Sometimes he just wanted it all to stop. Sometimes he wanted things to just reverse and go back to when he was little, before all of this. But never did he want things to continue the way they were. But he couldn’t talk to the losers about this. 

He knew they were understanding and caring people, but he just couldn’t get over his shame. His guilt. The overwhelming feeling of worthlessness whenever he thought about his work too much. He never even felt like a human being anymore. He just felt like a disposable object being used for the wrong reasons. He wanted to get help. He really did. But in the end, his logical, healthy voice was drowned out by his own static, noiseless thoughts. 

Richie felt like he was better off dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are not alone. If you have any issues, someone can help. If these numbers don’t work in your country, just look up the hotline and your country. These are US numbers. 
> 
> National sexual assault hotline: 1-800-656-4673
> 
> National human trafficking hotline: +18883737888
> 
> National suicide prevention hotline: 1-800-273-8255


	10. Wake Me Up When September Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Georgie is a lifesaver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Title from ‘Wake Me Up When September Ends’ by Green Day)
> 
> So my dudes, this chapter is kind of a doozy. Just know that the / around Certain lines are song lyrics that pertain to the story. The next chapter should be the losers talking to Richie 
> 
> Also Georgie lives :D
> 
> TW for Suicide attempt (sort of)

/ summer has come and passed. /

Richie felt the cold autumn air on his bare arms as he stepped off of the bench. The cold morning light shone upon him in a graceful manner.

/ the innocent can never last. /

He walked along towards the city roads. He felt warm and cold all at once as he waltzed a lonely dance down the trail, slowly marching towards his doom. Hopefully.

/ wake me up when September ends. /

Richie felt like he was in a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. This was his last resort.

/ like my father’s come to pass. /

He wondered why his family hated him so much. His mother never acknowledged his existence. His father clearly felt as if his own child was a better punching bag than a son. 

/ seven years has gone so fast. /

Richie missed the days when he didn’t have to worry about Patrick, or making money, or hiding his cuts, or even finding a place to sleep. But Richie had already reached his destination before he could think any more about that. 

/ wake me up when September ends. /

The building was about 20 feet tall with an open roof. It was the best he could find. He didn’t know if the fall would be lethal. But Richie could hope. 

/ here comes the rain again; /

Richie had reached the rooftop, climbing over the railing with ease. He stared at the city before him, rain now spilling from the clouds. Derry looked strangely peaceful from Richie’s view. 

/ falling from the stars. /

Richie let go of the railing, preparing to lean off of the ledge. But he heard a voice behind him. 

“Richie, what are you doing?” 

/ drenched in my pain again. /

It was Georgie. Memories flooded back into Richie’s mind from when he babysat Georgie when he was around four. He remembered his sweet little voice. His stupid shenanigans that Richie helped organize. It sent a wave of hurt through his entire body. 

/ becoming who we are. /

“Hi Georgie,” Richie sniffled, the tears on his face shining in the sunlight. Georgie cocked his head in a childish manner.

“Hi, what are you doing?” 

“I was just looking at the view,” Richie sniffled again. 

“Well, do you wanna play with me and my new paper boat? Bill told me you were up here and that I should go talk to you.” 

/ as my memory rests; /

Richie climbed over the railing, immediately wrapping Georgie up in a warm hug. 

/ but never forgets what I lost. /

Richie kept thanking Georgie over and over, for something Georgie didn’t understand yet. 

/ wake me up when September ends. /

Richie headed back down the stairs, following close behind a cheerful Georgie. He was going to play with their new toy boat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are suffering from suicidal thoughts, you are not alone. If this US number does not work for you, google your country’s name and the national suicide hotline.
> 
> National suicide hotline- 1-800-273-8255


	11. The Beginning of the End and the End of the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie gets help and Bill has a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, finally finished it! Sorry I know it’s lackluster and unrealistic, but I wanted to finish it while I could! Thank you all for reading, I appreciate your kindness so much!
> 
> Stay safe, everyone!

Bill had a dream. The night before he saw Richie standing on the ledge of some abandoned apartment complex. He had been tossing and turning the whole night before awakening.

… 

Bill was in the sewers for some reason, and he could hear the distant calls of Richie echoing through the metallic gateways. Bill followed the voice, eventually seeing glowing red light from around the corner of one of his sewer pathways. 

He peaked around the metal wall, seeing the mirage of Scarlett radiation quickly disappear behind grey walls. Bill followed it. 

At last, Bill reached an opening. He walked cautiously into the open area, hearing the faint sound of an out of tune music box play louder and louder. 

Finally, the red light reappeared. But as it revealed itself, so did something, or someone else. It was what looked to be a clown like figure, with a Victorian era jester costume ripped and torn and tattered, and the buttons were tearing apart and withering at their seams. The figure had bright orange hair, which lay untamed and matted. The figure was enormous, looking so even from far away. The figure’s head was facing the ground. 

The figure approached Bill, and as much as he wanted to run, he was paralyzed. It was like he was superglued to the ground. 

The figure finally reached Bill, towering over him with an incredulous height advantage. It looked at him at last, revealing its face. 

Its eyes were bright yellow, searing into Bill’s mind. Its gaze was crooked and lazy, but it was hyper focused nonetheless. Its teeth were gapped, but sharp in a way. It had red lipstick colored on its lips and nose, and it had red lines from his forehead to his mouth. 

The figure leaned close to Bill, smiling sinisterly. It inhaled deeply, then stepped back onto a stage, which had magically appeared behind it in a matter of seconds. 

The stage danced with bright lights and music box noise. The figure introduced itself as ‘Pennywise, the Dancing Clown.’ It suddenly began to sing and dance to a morbid symphony. 

It sang. 

‘There once was a boy, young and quite coy;’

‘He thought that he’d try to learn how to fly’

‘His coke bottle spectacles were quite unacceptable’

‘His dirty bruised body was completely unwanted’

‘He used crude comedy to hide his own sad prophecy’

‘He used his bandages to deflect all damages’

‘So this boy, this poor boy tried to learn how to fly’

‘After all, it’s true, you die if you try.’

The music died out as the clown disappeared into the darkness, taking the red glowing light with him. 

… 

Then Bill woke up.   
Five Months Later

Richie finally reached out for help. He was reluctant, but after immense and intense pleading from his friends, and reassurance that they cared about him, he gave in and asked someone. The ‘someone’ he asked was Stanley’s parents. 

They were extremely concerned with his well being, immediately getting Richie into therapy, as well as having his parents arrested. They ended up legally adopting him a little while after. 

While Richie knew he would never truly be the same little boy he once was, he could sure as hell try his best. After all, who else would be the losers’ greatest Trashmouth?


End file.
